Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Some New Audio...
Some of you might remember this from the original post, which was way back in 2006. Anyway, this is the audio version of that little gem.
Another audio rehash from this old post.
Friday, October 20, 2006
More Freakin' Baseball
There has been much talk on the Blog lately about the grand ol’ sport of baseball. I realize there are many people in America who love this game, possibly because it is so sedentary that it is not necessary for them to move during the course of it. And that’s just the players. The viewers of the game are absolutely motionless. In fact, there have been several confirmed instances of baseball fans being carted away for display as department store dummies and all the statues of Indians you used to see placed in front of cigar stores were actually dedicated baseball fans who mummified while waiting for the final inning. But, apart from these vague slurs and aspersions, I decided it would be wise (and extraordinarily funny) to write a post that truly exhibits the insanity of certain sports. Because baseball has been the chosen topic here, I’ll start with it.
Why this love for baseball? First off, I don’t know. But, since a lack of knowledge has never stopped me from offering an opinion, I’ll tell you anyway. Baseball is popular because it gives guys an excuse to spit and swear in the outfield. Seriously! Well, that and become insanely wealthy.
Baseball is structured in nine segments called innings. Why these segments are called “innings” is not known. The game is essentially played outside. And, to proceed to succeeding innings, there has to be a specified number of outs, usually three, unless you are playing against a really stupid team and then you can usually get away with one.
The game is played with a small, white sphere, called a baseball for obvious reasons, which is approximately one inch in diameter (one litre for you metric types). In spite of its innocent appearance, this ball is obviously an instrument of evil or simply talks with a lisp, because it receives no end of punishment. Men with hats and chewing tobacco throw it at 100 miles per hour (100 hectares for those farther to the north), beat it with large wooden clubs, smother it in scary leather gloves, and sometimes throw it at the ground when it does something they disapprove of, like dodging out of the way when a player attempts to shove it into the scary leather glove. Personally, I’m on the ball’s side, here. If a large man wearing, as The Girlfriend put it, tight-fitting pants with knee-high socks worn over them, lunged toward me with a leather bag-like object several times my size and attempted to stuff me inside, I have to say I would exercise great agility in fleeing his grasp.
Then we have what is called a pitcher. This is a man who stands on a little hill of very unsanitary dirt called a pitcher’s mound. Why is this called a “pitcher’s” mound? If it is indeed his mound, why cannot he take it home with him after the game? He could let it eat dinner with him and introduce it to his mom: “Mom, Mound. Mound, Mom.”
But I think the pitcher is misnamed anyway. I mean, if I was standing in the kitchen (unlikely, but let’s suppose) and my wife said, “Hey, pitch me that large spoon,” I would not think she meant I should attempt to impale her with the spoon by using it as a missile and hurtling it at her at 100 mph. No, I would assume she meant I should toss it to her using a gentle arcing motion. Not in baseball. There, pitching means Attack of the Death Sphere. It would be much safer for the batter if the pitcher simply hauled out a double-barreled shotgun and pulled both triggers simultaneously. Hey, if it works for certain high-level government officials, then I think a major-league sports player could pull it off.
Each team also has a coach. I don’t watch a lot of baseball, but one thing I did notice was that the coach would every now and then walk briskly onto the field in order to talk to the pitcher, who cleverly covered his mouth with a scary leather glove while speaking. Actually, the fact of the matter is that the coach does not go to talk to the pitcher. He gets up and moves around because he has to go to the bathroom, but doesn’t want to miss any of the game. Ha! A league secret is out. Look for my tell-all book, which will be appearing in bookstores everywhere, at least until the store management notices that I have replaced the latest Grisham thriller display with copies of “My Secret Life As An Undercover and Very Inconspicuous Wad of Tootie-Frootie Chewing Gum.”
Well, shucks, look at the time. I meant to give a quick rundown of each major sport, but baseball turned out to be so silly that I carried away. The others will just have to wait. Stay tuned, ladies and gents, we still have to get to lacrosse! And bloody knuckles!
Baseball is structured in nine segments called innings. Why these segments are called “innings” is not known. The game is essentially played outside. And, to proceed to succeeding innings, there has to be a specified number of outs, usually three, unless you are playing against a really stupid team and then you can usually get away with one.
The game is played with a small, white sphere, called a baseball for obvious reasons, which is approximately one inch in diameter (one litre for you metric types). In spite of its innocent appearance, this ball is obviously an instrument of evil or simply talks with a lisp, because it receives no end of punishment. Men with hats and chewing tobacco throw it at 100 miles per hour (100 hectares for those farther to the north), beat it with large wooden clubs, smother it in scary leather gloves, and sometimes throw it at the ground when it does something they disapprove of, like dodging out of the way when a player attempts to shove it into the scary leather glove. Personally, I’m on the ball’s side, here. If a large man wearing, as The Girlfriend put it, tight-fitting pants with knee-high socks worn over them, lunged toward me with a leather bag-like object several times my size and attempted to stuff me inside, I have to say I would exercise great agility in fleeing his grasp.
Then we have what is called a pitcher. This is a man who stands on a little hill of very unsanitary dirt called a pitcher’s mound. Why is this called a “pitcher’s” mound? If it is indeed his mound, why cannot he take it home with him after the game? He could let it eat dinner with him and introduce it to his mom: “Mom, Mound. Mound, Mom.”
But I think the pitcher is misnamed anyway. I mean, if I was standing in the kitchen (unlikely, but let’s suppose) and my wife said, “Hey, pitch me that large spoon,” I would not think she meant I should attempt to impale her with the spoon by using it as a missile and hurtling it at her at 100 mph. No, I would assume she meant I should toss it to her using a gentle arcing motion. Not in baseball. There, pitching means Attack of the Death Sphere. It would be much safer for the batter if the pitcher simply hauled out a double-barreled shotgun and pulled both triggers simultaneously. Hey, if it works for certain high-level government officials, then I think a major-league sports player could pull it off.
Each team also has a coach. I don’t watch a lot of baseball, but one thing I did notice was that the coach would every now and then walk briskly onto the field in order to talk to the pitcher, who cleverly covered his mouth with a scary leather glove while speaking. Actually, the fact of the matter is that the coach does not go to talk to the pitcher. He gets up and moves around because he has to go to the bathroom, but doesn’t want to miss any of the game. Ha! A league secret is out. Look for my tell-all book, which will be appearing in bookstores everywhere, at least until the store management notices that I have replaced the latest Grisham thriller display with copies of “My Secret Life As An Undercover and Very Inconspicuous Wad of Tootie-Frootie Chewing Gum.”
Well, shucks, look at the time. I meant to give a quick rundown of each major sport, but baseball turned out to be so silly that I carried away. The others will just have to wait. Stay tuned, ladies and gents, we still have to get to lacrosse! And bloody knuckles!
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
A Short History of Baseball
Well, the season is on us once again. It’s a magical time: the crack of the bat (although why you’d want to sit around listening to a wise-cracking, nocturnal insectivore I don’t know), the smell of the turf, the loud belching of the drunk behind you…ah! Yes, fans, it is baseball season!
I hate baseball. It is unquestionably the lamest game ever invented, with the possible exception of lacrosse. However, I understand there are many people who enjoy it and for that reason I will say, “Get a life!” No, seriously, I’m just joshin’ you. I’ll take it all back if you’ll put down the Louisville Slugger. Okay?
Now that we have that settled, I will say what I actually meant to say in the first place. Ahem. Because I understand there are many people who enjoy this sport, I have decided to devote a space on this Blog to explaining the history of baseball. I’ve done extensive research on this subject and have come to the conclusion that it would have been a much better use of my time to construct a scale model of the Arc de Triomphe out of pinecones. However, since I’ve already done the research, I might as well pass my findings along to you.
A Short History of Baseball
Once there were twin brothers, Ralph and Ernie Base. The Base brothers were ambitious and, because they knew that Mom and Pop were pulling for them, wanted to become a success so their parents would be proud.
“Not a chance,” their parents said.
Undeterred, Ralph and Ernie decided to become inventors. Their first contraption, invented in 1849, was a water-purifier that worked wonderfully well. Immediately, they crated it up and took the machine to California, where the Gold Rush was in full swing. Once there, they began putting their invention to work, removing all that pesky gold from the streams so the water would once again be safe to drink.
Strangely, the Base brothers soon found themselves in a home for the criminally insane. Since there was nothing to do except drool and play with straws, the brothers became increasingly bored.
One day, Ralph sat at breakfast, staring at his orange and wondering how his life could have taken such a drastic turn for the worse.
“It’s because you’re stupid,” Ernie said, reading Ralph’s thoughts.
“Shut up,” Ralph thought.
“Okay,” Ernie said.
Irritated, Ralph threw the orange at his brother, who caught it expertly.
“You’re out!” Ernie yelled.
Ralph looked at him strangely. “What did you say?” he asked. “What do you mean, ‘You’re out?’”
Ernie looked confused. “I’m not sure what came over me,” he said. “It just sort of pooped out.”
“Popped out,” Ralph corrected, rolling his eyes.
“Eh?”
“The correct expression is ‘popped’ out.” Ralph replaced his eyes, which had obediently rolled back to him. “Gimme back that orange.”
Ernie threw the fruit and Ralph caught it easily. A thrill passed through him, signifying that he had either made a great discovery or his bedpan needed changing. Either way, it was a lot more exciting than what had been taking place thus far.
“We’ve made a great discovery!” he announced.
Ernie glanced over at him. “Sweet!” he said and went back to playing with his drool.
“No, no! I’m serious!” Ralph sat up straight in bed and gazed at Ernie in wonder. “You threw a small, spherical object at me and I caught it! We’re geniuses!”
“Sweet!”
Over the next few days, the Base brothers busied themselves working out the details of their new game. At first, they were going to have five starting players, who would bounce the spherical object on the ground and then try to throw it into a round metal rim, which would be called a “basket.” But they soon realized how ridiculous this sounded and scrapped the idea.
“Maybe we are going crazy,” Ralph thought.
“Yeah,” Ernie agreed. “We’re bonkers.”
Gradually, their plans took shape and soon they had devised an entire game, complete with rules and everything. The hardest part was naming the game. Ernie insisted it be called “ernieball,” but Ralph felt that was dumb, preferring instead to call it “tennis.” Finally, they reached a compromise wherein they named the game “baseball.”
“I’m seein’ national pastime in our future,” Ralph said, always the optimist.
And that, my friends, is a short history of baseball. Perhaps this season will mean more to you die-hard fans now that you know how and where the game truly evolved: by two crazies in a nuthouse.
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